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I stood there and let the coyote decide what he wanted to do. I wasn’t going to run away.

Both of us made of the desert, I was sure my father and I shared the same end—it and its creatures would decide what was to be done with us. They’d probably already sealed Wilmot’s fate.

Today, the coyote, whose eyes were locked on mine, wasn’t up for a hunt. Shortly, he turned and ran toward the horizon and the lowering sun.

I watched him go, then got back into the Jeep and headed home.

CHAPTER

6

I FLIPPED THE LIGHTS on inside my lab, the space that had once been Wilmot’s studio. This place had seen lots of blood but none from my time. I worked only with bones that wouldn’t bleed anymore. But Wilmot had drained creatures. Though I didn’t think about them often, I remembered those days, and I remembered thinking that everything my father did was interesting. It had all been long ago. I could look back as if the little girl hadn’t been me, but some other innocent child who simply idolized her father.

I hadn’t considered that I needed to forgive myself for then. But even when I remembered that the little Hazel had been me, it had been easy to see my life through the lens of an observer who could understand why that little girl was so intrigued by what went on inside the studio.

This evening, as I looked around the lab, I tried to remember more, maybe something that might give some sort of clue or hint about the bone sculpture. But nothing new came to me. It was all the same old, same old. And from a long time ago.

My lab wasn’t as sterile as it had been when it was Wilmot’s studio. I had shelves filled with boxes—bones as well as equipment and books inside them. The tools of my trade were different from my father’s, the floor drain unused for decades.

I closed my eyes and set my hands flat on the steel anatomy table, letting its coolness seep through my flesh, hoping the touch would fill in the voids or push my mind a little further than just the edges of those fuzzy images from the days around his disappearance.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes and grabbed the bottle of beer I’d set on the corner of the table. I stepped toward the door, but stopped again. I turned and made my way to a box. I dug through it and found the item I’d been looking for. A wireless camera, one that was attached to an application on my phone. I plugged it in to charge, made my way out of the lab, and then through the museum to the sliding glass door and out to the patio.

I’d think about where to put the camera.

The space on the patio was made for one, unless two people liked each other enough to be crowded. One small table sat next to one chaise that had seen better days. I’d purchased the chaise from a box store up in Tucson the summer before, but what the desert creatures and plants didn’t destroy, the hot Arizona sun ate away. I’d have to get a new chaise soon.

Concrete block walls surrounded the patio. There was no door to the other side, no way out except over the wall.

I lay back on the chaise and looked up at the sky. Like many communities in Arizona, Black Vulture was a dark-sky town, and we kept all outdoor lighting to a minimum so as not to interfere with the views of the night skies.

My eyes acclimated quickly, and I searched for my favorite constellations as I let questions from the day play through my mind of their own accord. Maybe something would solidify.

I never heard wings, but rustles from the landing always made me sit up and search the palo verde limbs from the tree on the other side of the patio wall. The tree encroached onto my property and helped with morning shade.

The Wild was back there, and for a reason I didn’t understand, one of its creatures had become one of my frequent visitors.

I searched the tree, finally seeing the glimmer of the owl’s eyes as light from the quarter moon shone off them. In a minute or so, I’d be able to see the whole creature.

“Hey there, Jack,” I said.

He stared at me. My voice never bothered him.

Arizona horned owls were impressive—brilliant hunters, and big, they could reach two feet. Like other nearby horned owls, Jack probably nested in a Saguaro cactus. Clearly, he ate well, seemed healthy.

I had no idea why he’d landed in that tree just over a year ago, and I didn’t understand why he kept coming back. I saw him three times a week, at least. When I wasn’t out on the patio, he’d hoot to get my attention. I’d look out and tell him hello, which was the communication he seemed to be looking for.

He never stuck around for long, just enough to check in, hoot out some other message that was probably not meant for me but for some lady owl out there, and then fly away until next time.

A horned owl also filled a corner of the museum, its wings spread wide and secured to the ceiling with transparent string, its glass eyes aimed toward the front door. I’d never asked my father, but I wondered if he’d done that on purpose to set visitors back onto their heels.

I’d witnessed a few gasps over the years.

I wondered if Jack might somehow be related to the taxidermized animal in the museum, and he’d come back to claim his ancestry.

That was ridiculous, of course, but I truly had no idea why he visited me so often.